


And Every Moment Tastes of Death

by orphan_account



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Henry is a ghost, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He knew, then, that he would remain. An intuitive instinct, because Victor Frankenstein and his monster were gifted with funerals. Crackling and painful ones, where bones charred and flesh peeled, and where the smell of burning hair was the only thing one could sense. Ones that made him wonder if he could follow and kiss the iron out of Victor’s mouth.





	And Every Moment Tastes of Death

Henry Clerval never had a funeral. Instead, good and kind Henry Clerval had a slow suffocation underneath a cruel smile. He had powerful hands clenching around his neck and squeezing slowly, letting him feel as knuckles cracked and the sinew and cartilage of his fragile neck slowly caved in. He had blood in his mouth and down his shirt, once pressed neatly and freshly clean, presentable just for his dearest friend. 

Instead of a funeral, perfect Henry Clerval watched underneath the water for a long, long time. Until someone eventually found him and dumped him in an old casket, dusty and creaking from disuse and lack of care. He could only watch as people prodded his bloated and bruised patches, force his neck around and around, could only watch and they shoved his dearest friend into the room and watched,  
unsympathetic, as he screamed and wailed over him. 

He was useless this time, to the illness that plagued his lovely Victor and plunged him into a darkness even the dead could not pierce. He was useless as they neglected him, accused him and mistreated him. For the first time in a long time, quiet and polite Henry Clerval wanted to scream until he tasted blood again. Wanted to lash each and every one of the accusers with his tongue until they felt what he did, what Victor did. 

He wanted to caress Victor’s pale face in his bloated hands, wanted to move them away, back to Geneva and the cool mountains of Switzerland. But Henry was useless, was long dead and decayed. He died a long time ago underneath suffocating weight and the suffocating taste of sweat and iron. Bulging eyes and pale limbs, still twitching when he was brutally dropped into the water to mummify.

Or maybe he died when Victor left, left them for Ingolstadt, for unresponsiveness and alchemy. Left Henry, alone and afraid, to comfort a worried family and avoid his father’s wrath. Left Henry alone to suffer quietly in his worry, each day that his love did not answer aging him a year’s worth. It seemed that even while in the world of the living, he followed Victor Frankenstein as if lead on a leash. It was only fitting, and romantic that he followed him in death.

Henry was led like a dog, as he watched brilliant Elizabeth die at the same monster’s hands, as hopeful Alphonse could not survive the grief, as Victor abandoned his only remaining family in favor of chasing a fever dream. He could only flutter about as Victor slowly ran out of food, as he was forced to shoot and kill one of his favorite animals, just to consume it’s cold fresh raw. 

Dearest Henry Clerval, closest to Victor Frankenstein’s heart, could only watch as Victor was stranded after finding the wretch, could only watch, screaming until his neck snapped all over again, as he met Robert Walton. He could only stare, blood dripping down his lips, iron all encompassing, as Robert fell in love with Victor the same way he did, quickly and suffocatingly. He used to use his love as inspiration for his now yellowed and smudged poetry, but it only felt like hands around his neck now. 

He could only lay on the ground next to Victor’s corpse, sobbing and mourning like Victor once did, unseen and unknown. Henry Clerval could only stare in terror as the monster that forced blood in his mouth and water in his skin carried his perfect Victor away. He knew, then, that he would remain. An intuitive instinct, because Victor Frankenstein and his monster were gifted with funerals. Crackling and painful ones, where bones charred and flesh peeled, and where the smell of burning hair was the only thing one could sense. One’s that made him wonder if he could follow and kiss the iron out of Victor’s mouth. They would be permitted to leave the cold and wet earth. 

However, Henry Clerval would stay, because Henry Clerval never had a funeral.


End file.
